


Charcoal

by Blistering_Typhoons



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Tarzan (1999), The Jungle Book (1967)
Genre: Gen, Guns, Headcanon, Hunters & Hunting, It Just Does, Jungle, One Shot, don't ask when this happens, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26821282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blistering_Typhoons/pseuds/Blistering_Typhoons
Summary: A shimmering foil to one another. Smoke and death.(A Headcanon that Clayton once ran into Shere Khan)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Charcoal

Clayton is used to the heat, the wet that clings to every fiber of his body and drips from his hair. He knows what it's like to sit for hours on end, perfectly still in the sweltering atmosphere.

If he were poetically inclined (not until several glasses of port and his own company he's not), he'd say you could almost melt into the jungle. Suck the shade from the glistening bark and obnoxious palm leaves fanned out above.

He's never done well in desert.

But most of all, he's used to things going his way. There's not much to complain about when giving a relatively dry perch and a gun to croon over.

But things, as they tend to do, do go wrong.

For all his familiarity in the jungle, he's never been comfortable with it. And the canopies of India are nothing to trifle with, especially not with a half blunt machete and a quarter of his supplies, which were now bottle of whiskey (bloody awful); his gun slung around his shoulder, over his chest and finally a box of sodden matches

He spares a fleeting moment of disgusted sympathy for whomever finds the bodies of his co-explorers.

Clayton grits his teeth sharply, irritatedly smoothing a palm over his rapidly dishevelling hair. His forehead slicks with sweat and dirt, coated in a layer of shredded plant. 

With a subdued grunt he swings the blade through a weak gathering of vines, trampling them beneath his boots as they fall tattered to the ground.

He swears, dignified, under his breath as another veritable horde of mosquitos buzz past him.

He stills.

Lastly, Clayton is a hunter.

The jungle creaks and hums around him, plants swishing from his abusive stampede. His mind twitches, nerves convulsing at every noise.

Something is slinking around him, soft and infinitely dangerous. He breathes softly out of his nose, free hand laying a steadying hand on the strap of his rifle.

Muscles flex as he lowers himself to the ground, tensing as he keeps his guard locked and focused.

With care he lays down the machete, and slips the strap off and the gun into his hands. It feels safe and comforting, tainted with burning sweat and gripped quietly.

A distant animal calls out, too distant for Clayton to be startled.

His prey rustles around him.

''Come on, show yourself.'', he whispers with no breath, barely uttering the taunt.

It does.

Clayton is, by nature, a loud man. Almost wild, reckless, arrogant and yet cool in his ambitions and merciless glories.

Clayton is also not stupid.

The tiger that prowls into view is stunning. Deep orange accentuated with sharp, almost angry black and settled with white. The cat's muscles coil and bunch undearneath that beautiful coat, effortlessly dangerous. 

Clayton would have shot it by now, sparing only a moment's panic. If he was feeling good, he might have even skinned it.

But the way it looks at him, and Clayton knows it's looking at him, suggests something far more terrifying than a pair of sharp claws and a shredding grin.

_Intelligence._

Something flickers in Clayton's gut, but he doesn't falter. Not even as he aims his gun at the beast.

It looks almost bored, but Clayton isn't fooled for a second. Those black, glittering eyes issue a challenge.

_Go on then, do your worst._

And then Clayton sees it. A flaw in the otherwise perfect machine of nature stalking his every movement. A flaw that can't even be hidden, but did take a moment's notice to find.

Burns. 

Etched near the right eye and marrowing the cheek, gnarled and subtle.

Clayton chuckles deeply.

''Fire.'', he drawls, pleased.

The tiger betrays nothing, but Clayton feels he's been understood. So laying his heart bare, he lowers the rifle and sets it to the floor.

''Bit of an impasse, chap? Could be awfully inconvenient for either of us if we went at this full-cocked. Perhaps I'll introduce a dealbreaker. Something to even the ground, eh?'', he says, mostly to hurry his hand movements.

Something low and primal is drawn from the animal, seemingly from the quivering belly of the creature.

It's rage, bottled and presented to human senses.

That's good.

Clayton can handle rage.

Fire with fire, and all that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Feedback appreciated, but other than that have a lovely day!


End file.
